Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 20
Compiler: John Mackay Wilson
Editor: Alexander Leighton
Release date: August 26, 2011 [eBook #37217]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37217
Credits: Produced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
1884.
It is now about twenty years sin' I first raised my voice in the desk o' the kirk o' St Fillan's, in the parish o' that name, and He wha out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklins did ordain praise, hath never thought meet, by means o' ony catarrh, cynanche, quinsy, toothache, or lock-jaw, to close up my mouth, and prevent me frae leadin the congregation in a clear, melodious strain, to the worship o' the Chief Musician. When I was ordained session clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor, I had already passed about thirty years o' my pilgrimage; yet filled wi' Latin and Greek, till my pia mater was absolutely like to burst, I had, notwithstanding, nae trade by the hand. The reason was this. My father, who had been for forty years sexton o' the parish, had seen, wi' an e'e lang practised in searchin for traces o' death in the faces o' parishioners—for the labourer maun live by his hire, and the merchant by his customers, "and thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands"—a pleasant leucophlegmatic tinge about the gills o' Jedediah Cameron, my predecessor in the three offices already mentioned. Weel, as the husbandman in dry weather, when his fields are parched, and his braird thin and weak, watches the clouds that contain rain—mair precious to him than the ointment that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's dry beard—my guid father watched the dropsical signs or indications in Jedediah's face, daily and hourly, in the fair and legitimate hope o' gettin the aridity o' my starvin condition quenched and satisfied. He was an argute sexton, and had learned, in his younger days, some smatterin o' Latin, though I never could ascertain that he retained more of the humane lear, than the twa proverbs, "Vita mortalium brevis," "Life is short," which comes originally frae Homer; and "Pecuniæ obediunt omnia," which comes frae the sixth chapter o' Ecclesiastes—"Money answereth all things."
But my father was never contented wi' his ain prognosis. His ain ee for death was as gleg as that o' the hawk for its quarry; but the glegness wasna a mere junction or combination o' a keen and praiseworthy desire to live, and a lang experience o' lookin for death in ithers; he had science to guide him; he knew a' the Latin names comprehended in Dr Cullen's "Nosology;" an' Buchan's "Domestic Medicine" was scarcely ever out o' his hands, except when there was a spade in them. I hae the auld, thumed, and faulded, and marked copy o' our domestic Æsculapius yet; and, as I look at the store from which he used to draw the lore that enabled him to see, as if by a kind o' necromantic divination, a guid lucrative death, though still lodged in the wame o' futurity, I canna but drap a tear to the memory o' ane wha toiled sae hard for the sake o' his son. But I examine the book, sometimes, in a mair philosophic way—to mark the train o' my auld parent's mind, as he had perused his text-book; for it was his practice, when he saw ony o' the parishioners exhibiting favourable symptoms—such as a hard, dry cough, puffed legs, white liver lips, or even some o' the mair dubious indications, such as a pale cheek, spare body, drooping head, difficulty in walking, morbid appetite, or bulimia, the delirium tremens o' dram-drinkers, the yellow o' the white o' the ee o' hypochondriacs, and the like—to search in Buchan for the diseases portended by thae appearances, and, when he was sure he had caught them, to draw a pencil stroke along the margin opposite to the pleasantest parts o' the doctor's descriptions. I never saw mony marks opposite the common and innocuous complaints—cholica, or pain in the stamach; catarrhs, or cauld; arthritis, or gout; rheumatismus, or rheumatism; odontalgia, or toothache; and sae forth: thae were beneath his notice. Neither did I ever observe ony marks o' attention to what are called prophylactics, or remedies, to prevent diseases comin on: thae nostrums he plainly despised. But, sae far as I could discover, he had a very marked abhorrence o' what the doctors ca' therapeutics, or means and processes o' curin diseases, and keepin awa death; and as for what are denominated specifics, or infallible remedies, he wouldna hear o' them ava—showin his despite o' them by the exclamation—"Psha!" scribbled with contemptuous haste on the margin. The soul and marrow o' the book to the guid man—bless him!—were the mortal symptoms—the facies Hippocraticus, the Hippocratic face; the raucitus mortis, or rattle in the throat; subsultus tendinum, or twitching o' the hands and fingers; the glazing o' the ee, and the stoppin o' the breath, and the like o' thae serious signs and appearances. A strong, determined stroke o' the pencil marked his attention to and interest in the Doctor's touchin account o' thae turns o' the spindle wharby the thread o' our existence is wound up for ever. It may be easily and safely supposed, that the melancholy words, descriptive o' the oncome o' the grim tyrant himsel—"and death closes the tragic scene"—sae touchingly and feelingly introduced by the eloquent author werena lost on my respectit parent.
Guid man as he was, however, (I shall return presently to his study o' my predecessor's dropsy,) it is painfu for his son to hae to say that, though very generally respectit by people when they were in health and prosperity, he hadna the same veneration extended to him by the same individuals when they fell into disease. But though rejectin his visits, sae lang as a patient was in life and capable o' bein benefited by his lively manners, the breath was nae sooner out o' the body, than he was sent for, ye might almost say by express. It is some consolation to me, that my parent was far abune shewin resentment at conduct sae contradictory and offensive. In place o' bein angry when invited to the house o' a dead patient, from which he had been expelled during his illness, he uniformly appeared well pleased—repairin, wi' the greatest good humour, to the residence o' the deceased, and disdainin to exhibit the slightest indication o' pique or anger. There are some men wha brak the prophet's command—"Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we die all;" but I can safely and upon my honour and parole say, that my parent shewed nae greater signs o' happiness on the death o' an enemy than he did on the death o' a friend. A man has a pleasure in statin thae things o' a father.
These early associations hae a charm about them that's very apt to lead a person off his direct road; "Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior"—the very smoke o' our father's fireside is clearer than anither's flame. How bright, then, maun the virtue and honour o' a father and mother appear to a dutiful and affectionate son! I was stating, at the time when I was seduced into that pleasant episode, that my father kept up a daily inspection o' the leucophlegmatic face o' my predecessor, Jedediah Cameron; comparing, with, the greatest diligence, the aqueous symptoms there discernible, with the description given by his oracle, Dr Buchan; and, as his hopes strengthened, edging me, by slow degrees, into the dominie's desk, and the schoolmaster's chair o' authority, as the friendly and gratuitous assistant o' the dying man. But my father had mair sense than to trust, entirely and allenarly, in an affair o' sae gigantic importance, to ony dead authority. He was at the heels o' Dr Dennistoun, our parish physician, as often as that worthy man would permit his approach; and it was sometimes said, though in a jocular way—and nae man likes a joke better than I do—that he consulted the doctor as the farmer does the barometer, with a view to a guid crop. But, were this even vero verius, certo certius, how could my parent be blamed for being industrious? Unless ye thresh and grind, ye hae little chance o' a dinner—"Ni purgas et molas, non comedes;" an auld saying o' Diogenianus, particularly applicable to my father, who had to support, by his industry, an idle sou—bos in stabulo—long, bare-boned, ill-filled up, as hungry and voracious as a Cyclops, and never weel-dined but on the day o' a dead-chack. I might blame my respectable parent for consulting Dr Dennistoun about expected deaths and burials, if mortals could avoid ony o' the twa; but we hae nae Elijahs in thae days, "to be taken up in a whirlwind of fire, and in a chariot of fiery horses." Death comes to a'—mors omnibus communis; and Jedediah Cameron—bless him!—had nae chance o' bein made an exception; otherwise my lank wame and lean cheeks stood a puir chance o' bein sae weel filled up as they afterwards came to be, when I held his three offices.
If it hadna been to make certainty doubly sure, my father had nae occasion to hound after Dr Dennistoun in the way he did, to ascertain the probability o' the death o' Jedediah Cameron, or ony other mortal that stood a chance o' needin a bit turf and a kindly clap o' his spade. His ee was as sure as a cockatrice's. He needed nae howling o' the moon-baying tyke, nae' death-watch, nae whip-lash on the table, nae dead-drap, nae dead-shaving at the candle, nae coffin-spark frae the fire, nae powers o second-sight, dreams, or divinations, to tell him when he was to hae a guid job. He came to be able to read death in men's faces, as he could do a printed book. Now, Jedediah Cameron didna deceive him. Ae day, when I was busy teachin the puir man's scholars, he came in, and whispered in my ear, that the parish clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's, was dead. I was, at the time, in the very act o' flogging an urchin wha had disputed my authority. The ferula fell from my hands; the urchin's rebellion was, I thought, ominous o' the rejection o' my claims o' succession; but, after a', there's nae oracle like the presentiments o' a man's ain soul, speaking frae the inspired tripod that is set owre the hollow-sounding, murmuring gulf o' an empty stamach; and so the ancient Pythonissa o' Apollo's temple at Delphi, judiciously took her seat over the abyss called the umbilicus orbis terrarum. Being an honest man, I confess frankly that the first feeling produced by my father's lively whisper, was a kind o' pleasure, approaching as near to delight as any sensation I had yet discovered in my microcosm. But I remembered the seventh verse o' the eighth chapter o' Ecclesiasticus, directed against rejoicing over the dead; and, upon the very instant, set vigorously to work, either to expel the delightful emotion frae my mind, or, at least, to push the sweet rebel off the cerebral throne—the pineal gland—and plunge him into some o' the deep ventricles, or dungeons, lying in the lower part of the brain, or ben in the cerebellum. It was a considerable struggle; but I succeeded to a perfect miracle—a circumstance I am the more pleased with, as I hate mortally that abominable cant of the Calvinists, about necessity, as if a man hadna the whip-hand, direction, and guidance of his own will.
The grave o' Jedediah Cameron was, in due time, dog by my parent—wi' what feeling, whether o' sorrow or satisfaction, I am not bound to say, because a sense o' delicacy prevented me frae being present at the breaking o' the earth; but I consider myself under an obligation to state, that I never saw my respected parent cover up a mortal body so cleverly. Lest, however, ony hasty-minded, sanguine individual, should, from this admission o' mine, suppose that that cleverness, or nimbleness, had ony connection with the alacrity o' joy, or the morbid quickness o' a sorrow that wishes to get an unpleasant job out of hands, I must explain that my father merely wanted—surely a most legitimate object—to catch as many o' the parochial heritors present at the funeral as remained on the ground, reading grave-stanes, or laughing and chatting thegither, after the body was clappit down—with the view o' securing their votes for me, as the singular successor (to speak as the lawyers do) to the three vacant offices held by the now dead dominie.
But this is a sair subject—I can scarcely write upon it. My brain whirls like an old woman's spindle the moment I think on't. Guidness! what a risk I ran o' losin my three offices by the mere paternal fondness o' that honest man. Some o' the heritors had remarked the vivacity and agility o' my parent in throwin in the heavy moil on the clatterin coffin, wi' mair noise, force, and fervor than was ever used on an occasion o' the same kind afore; pushin and shovellin great hillocks o' stanes and banes at a mighty effort, usin his very feet in the process; sweatin, pechin, stumblin, and producin a noise frae the coffin lid like distant thunner; and mair, peradventure, resemblin the risin than the lyin doun o' the dead. The thing couldna be concealed. My father was excited beyond a' prudence or decent decorum; and, when he had finished the wark, or rather pretended to finish it—for it was at best a clumsy business—and, drawin near, wi' the shovel in his hand, to a knot o' the heritors, standin on a flat gravestane, they asked him, wi' a significant expression, why he was in sae great a hurry in coverin up the puir dominie, a laugh rang amang the grave-stanes—a guid answer to my father's request—that stuck in his throat; and, in place o' gettin a vote, he hadna the courage to ask ane. The thing deed awa afore the meetin o' the heritors, an' I was saved frae ruin—an escape for which I hae offered up many thanks to the Author o' our mercies.
The pleasant duty o' filial love is sae fu' o' artfu' seduction, and winnin, pauky guile, that it has carried me awa frae my ain merits an' successes. The first thing I had to do was to keep a guid firm grip o' the schule, the parish books, and the dominie's desk; for I knew that possession is nine points o' the law. I got ready my testimonials wi' the greatest despatch; the mair by token, that some o' them were in a very forward state before Jedediah Cameron's breath was out. I ca'ed at the houses o' a' the heritors wha had bairns at the schule, and praised wi' decent pride the progress they had made under my care—music mair sweet to their ears than even the Bangor itsel. Meanwhile, I exerted mysel on the Sabbaths, to sing, wi' the greatest pith and clearness, the psalm tunes. I kenned the folks were fondest o' such as the Auld Hunder, Mount Pleasant, and that excellent favourite the Bangor. My execution, pathos, quavers, semi-quavers, were wonderfu. The parishioners were astonished, and followin my leadin tenor into the altitudes o' the highest inspiration, flew awa into the very Elysian fields o' enthusiastic devotion.
Nae doubt, some o' the auld, cunnin foxes, that never sang a stave looked at me as if they saw through my drift; but I was far abune their envy, and was conscious o' the purity o' my heart. In the meantime, my most excellent and much-respected parent was hawking aboot amang the heritors my testimonials; and at the next meetin o' the heritors, I was duly elected parish-clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's. Weel do I recollect that joyfu occasion. Our dinner exceeded far ony dead-chack I ever saw. My father took a free glass; and, inspired wi' the generous liquor, made a speech to me as lang as a funeral oration.
"Noo, Gideon," he began, "yer namesake, the son o' Joash got his fortune read by a dream o' a barley cake that fell frae heaven, as we find i' the Book o' Judges. Yer barley-cake hath come frae heaven, and the forces o' Midian are delivered owre to ye. I can do nae mair for ye. I hae fed ye, clad ye, made ye. In yer mouth I hae put men's lear, in yer heart God's fear. For yer sake I watched, as the husbandman does the clouds, for signs o' mortality in the face o' Jedediah Cameron; and the first symptom o' water I saw in his body, comin atween me and the sun o' my hope, made a glitterin rainbow in my paternal ee. Muckle do ye owe me, Gideon; but I'll no be ill to satisfy. I'll be pleased if ye measure yer gratitude by the size o' that lank, toom wame, whilk I never saw filled to satisfaction till this blessed day, when ye hauld the three principal offices o' this parish."
When I had fairly made up my mind to tak a wife, I set mysel to the wark systematically. The first thing to be dune was to put mysel in a convenient position for being struck; but a knowledge o' my combustible nature suggested caution against mere love at first sight—ex aspectu nascitur amor—lest I might be caught in yarn toils in place o' a goold chain. After a', there's nae place like a dominie's desk, for showing aff to the greatest advantage a man's personalities and graces. The openin o' the chest to let out the wind, naturally produces an erection o' the hail man. The keepin o' the time wi' the arm brings out a gracefu movement, just as ane were to set aff in a minuet. The lightin up o' the ee, and the fine attenuation o' a' the sma' limber muscles o' the face, wi' the power o' the music, is a direct expression o' the pure pathetic, showing at ance baith yer sentiment and yer beauty. Then singin itsel—and love, Augustinus says, will mak a musician out o' an ass—musicam docet amor—is a great grace and accomplishment, whether it be in warbling "Dundee's" wild measures, the "plaintive Martyrs," or "noble Elgin"—a' the very pick o' Psalm tunes—ranting "Tullochgorum," or spinnin out the lang, plaintive notes o' "The Flowers o' the Forest."
It may very safely be supposed, that I never lost sight o' thae advantages. A dominie, in urgent celibacy, has a' the invention aboot him o' a man in extreme hunger. In fact, I felt as keen to get a wife as I ever did to get my three offices. But I was weel aware that a' my dress—and Mr Meiklejohn himsel, the minister, hadna a finer gloss on his black coat, or a brighter white in his cravat—a' my posture-makin, my attitudes and smiles—a' my sentimental looks, and turnin up o' the white o' my een—could avail me little, unless I picked out some female as the object and mark o' a weel-directed and significant glowr. In case o' failure, I fixed upon twa—May Walker, the dochter o' Gilbert Walker, an auld cattle-dealer, wha rented Langacres frae a chief heritor; and Agnes Lowrie, the dochter o' Benjamin Lowrie, feuar o' Muirbank. Twa or three guid glowrs were a' that was necessary, in the first instance, to show that I, the dominie o' St Fillan's, wanted a wife, and that I was even in a state o' great exigency. The moment I thought I had impressed my twa damosels with this idea, I laboured assiduously in my vocation of endeavourin to produce, by my gracefu attitudes and sweet singin, a favourable impression on their hearts.
I am a weel-disposed man, but love is a terrible thing, and it now hangs heavy on my conscience, that I did little else, during the duration o' Mr Meiklejohn's discourses, than to cast the glamour o' my attractions owre the een o' my dulcineas. There was ae particular occasion, however, beyond a', for expressin the pressure and exigency o' my situation, and, as it were, forcin attention to my wants and wishes. I used to gie out the purposed marriages at an early hour, before the congregation was half assembled; but I now took especial care, that the twa objects o' my affections should be calmly seated before I executed this part o' my duties. I began first by fixin my een on the ane I intended to devote that particular Sabbath to, (for I alternated my preferences;) and, as I looked at her as significantly as I could, I pronounced the emphatic words—"There is a purpose o' marriage between"—wi' sae muckle strong, heart-felt pathos—sometimes even inclinin my right hand a little in the direction o' my heart—that baith look and word maun hae pierced her very gizzard. It was perfectly impossible that this could fail. These preliminary operations I persevered in for sixteen Sabbaths.
Having prepared matters in this effectual—I may say irresistible way—I bethought mysel o' the maist efficient way o' followin up the advantage I had gained. I asked my respected parent which o' the twa lasses he thought I should attack first. He answered, wi' that wisdom for which he was sae remarkable, that that depended upon circumstances. Twa or three days afterwards, he said he was prepared to answer my question—the interval being, I presume, occupied in gettin intelligence about the wealth o' the respective fathers o' the young women. He said, that, sae far as he could answer, May Walker was the preferable damsel. I asked him his reason. He replied, that he had taen the trouble o' ascertainin the hail circumstances o' her condition; and, though her father wasna sae rich as Agnes Lowrie's, he was paler, and a guid deal mair cadaverous looking. If my parent hadna been speakin professionally, as the sexton o' St Fillans, I might hae been inclined to think he was jokin, but he never was mair serious in his life; and, in fact, he had that very mornin been Buchaneezing, as he caed it, on Gilbert Walker's prognosis, and had come to a conclusion on his case, very favourable to my prospects in life.
The saxteen Sabbaths I had spent in limine, as it were, o' Cupid's temple, drove me sae hard up—in other words, increased the exigency o' my celibacy to such an extent—that, actin on my father's advice, I determined upon fa'in foul o' her the very first time I met her in an unprotected situation, and in a secret, sequestered, and convenient place. My respected parent aye said, that love was just like death. The twa powers are aye best, baith for themsels and their victims, when they tak them by storm, or, as the French say, by a coup de main. A lingerin death and a lingerin love (said the guidman) make the heart sick, and, for his part, (laying aside his professional feelings), he detested baith. He seized my mither, he said, just like an apoplexy, and she succumbed in a single groan o' consent.
"Gideon, take example by me," he continued; "never seize a woman like what Buchan ca's a hemiplegia—that is, by halves; comprehend in your embrace liver, pancreas, stamach, heart, spleen, and then ye're sure to move her compassion, and settle the affair in an instant."
Following my worthy genitor's advice, I watched for May Walker, the next Sabbath, as she left the kirk after the afternoon's service. She was alane, and took the quietest road to Langacres. I dogged her most determinedly up the Willow Loan that leads into a solitary and sequestered howe, ca'ed the Warlocks' Glen, a place sae intensely romantic, sae completely sacred to the high feelins o' love and poetry, that it seemed impossible there for a woman to resist a man; and, if she might attempt it, she could look for nae mortal assistance. Having ogled her into a perfect state o' preparation, or predisposition to receive the attack, as the doctors say, I was quite certain o' success; and, just as an experienced sportsman lets a bird tak a lang flight afore he fires, to shew his ease, coolness, and confidence in his powers, I allowed her to be half-way up the Willow Loan afore I should pounce upon her. By some misfortune, however, she had got a glimpse o' me; for, just when I was meditating on the surest way o' makin my point guid, she took to her heels, like a springbok, and was off through the Warlocks' Glen in as short a time as I tak to gie out the first line o' a heroic Psalm verse.
I cam hame and reported my progress to my parent; but he wasna in the slightest degree dispirited; and next Sabbath, I got Andrew Waugh, a singin weaver o' the village, to officiate for me, under a pretence that I had caught a severe cauld. I repaired to the Warlocks' Glen, and sat doun on a stump o' an auld aik tree, allowin freely the inspiration o' the place to seize me, and nerve my energies for the bauld project I had in hand. In a short time, I espied the streamers o' a woman's bannet wavin amang the willows in the distance. Slouchin doun, like a tiger, behind a large broom bush, I watched the onward progress o' the sweet nymph, doubtless my beloved May. It was absolutely and indispensably requisite that I should take her by ambuscade; for, if she had seen even the hem o' my garment, I'm satisfied her ambulation would hae been reversed, and in speed very considerably increased. I'm vexed to be obliged to mak this admission, which grates sae harshly against my self-conceit; but verity transcends, in beauty and importance, vanity; and I consider this biography to be naething but a confession frae beginnin to end.
Keepin my slouchin, sneakin attitude as weel as my lang gaunt body would permit, I had at least the exorbitant satisfaction o' seein the dear young woman walkin mournfully alang, unconscious o' the danger that awaited her. At a little distance from my lurkin place, she stood, as if she feared there was a snake in the grass; for the anxiety and solicitude I felt to get a glimpse o' her fair face, forced me to twist my body into unpleasant contortions, which produced a kind of a rustling amang the sere-leaves that lay on the ground. Findin a' quiet again, she seemed to renounce a' fear; though I secretly suspected that she kenned weel aneugh the cause o' the noise, for I had detected the hinder part o' my body in a higher state o' elevation than my will or security warranted, being considerably abune the broom, and, therefore, plainly in her ee. Keepin my suspicion to mysel, I watched her motions wi' still greater curiosity and intensity; because, if my suspicions were true that she kenned I was lyin sneakin there, her conduct, of course, required frae me a different rule o' construction. At last she sat doon, quite close to me—a circumstance that satisfied me still mair that she was aware o' my position, condition, and intentions—for it seemed to be a kind o' an invitation to me to dart upon her, and secure my prey. She spoke.
"Noo, this is no usin me quite weel," said she, "no to be here," (a mere blind, thinks I, to mak me think she doesna ken I'm lyin slouchin at her very side), "when I had sae muckle to say to him. Though I was shy to him the last time I saw him, he might hae learned eneugh o' the heart o' woman to ken that we hae certain arts and wiles, and guiles about us—a kind o' secret charms—to increase an affection that we think over languid, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the warm life o' a lively passion. It canna be, that, after sae lang a period o' lookin, followin, and languishin, he doesna like me. If he only kenned the condition o' this puir, flutterin, beatin heart, that fears to listen to its ain timid voice, as if it were treason to love—how muckle mair wad he prize my sittin here, invitin—wae's my puir prudence!—thae very attractions I used to flee frae! But woman, weak woman, is doomed to be the sport o' men, as weel as o' her ain heart."
It was noo clearly my time to pounce. In fack, the young woman was invitin me. Up I sprang, like a jungle thief.
"How can you sit there, May," said I, "kennin I was lyin sneakin there under that broom bush, and yet abusin a faithfu creature for being slow and languid in his love, when last Sabbath ye flew frae him wi' a' the pith o' a bitter hatred disgust, and scorn! Languid in my affection! Is that like languidness?" (Throwing my arms fully around her, so as to include, if possible, the hail body in my ample embrace.) "Is that, dear May, like love in the dead-thraw? If that's no a sign" (still pressing her, as she struggled and cried) "o' the warm life o' a lively passion, as ye ca'd it, I kenna what it is?"
As I thus held her in my impassioned grasp—as firm as a tiger's—she screamed most inordinately, makin the hail Warlocks' Glen ring frae end to end, rousin the mawkins on every side, and makin them skip over the whin bushes as if they had been followed by a pack o' harriers. But I wasna to be deceived. She had, when I was sneakin under the bush o' broom, gien me the key to this conduct, in her cunnin monologue. This was ane o' the arts, wiles, guiles, and secret charms, to increase a languid affection, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the warm love o' a lively passion. Her words still rung in my ears, and I was as determined as the very deevil to show her that her efforts to increase my love were perfectly effectual. I hugged her closer and closer. Heart, liver, pancreas, a'thegither, as recommended by my father, were in my embrace. I squeezed the dear creature like a vice, sae strong was my determination, increased every minute by her screams, to prove to her entire satisfaction—in fack, to demonstrate, beyond the possibility of a doubt—that there was nae mair occasion for her female guile or charm, and that she might rest assured that my affection could, nae mair than my grasp, be increased in point o' intensity. But a' wouldna do—her heart seemed to be insatiable. In addition to my squeezing grasp, I kissed her ruby lips. She cried the louder and the louder; and—oh! hae I lived to write it?—she actually spat on the face that was glowin red hot wi' affection for her. Still I persevered; for I thought that even the sputum might be ane o' her secret charms. The struggle continued, and her cries increased. She had recourse to her nails, and I felt the blude streamin doun my cheeks. We fell on the ground. A man's voice behind me cried—"My love, my love! knock doun the spoiler!" A tremendous blow on the head took frae me my senses; and, when I recovered, I was in my ain bed, with my respectit parents sitting by me, watchin, with the greatest and tenderest care, the return o' consciousness to their beloved son.
I sune recovered my health, but my reputation and fair fame were for a time under a cloud. The parishioners, in place o' shakin me by the hand, looked at me with averted eyes. I was treated as a dog that had been in bad company. A sough went throughout the parish, that Simon Begley—or, as the folks ca'ed him, with a humorous application to his craft, that of procurator-fiscal o' the county, Beagle—was busy takin a precognition with a view to layin the case before the Lord Advocate. But I was gien to understand, and privately, that the authorities didna intend, in the meantime, to lay hold o' me, as they had nae suspicion I would flee the country. Their object was to ascertain the truth o' the charge, and, if they found there was any real delictum, and Gilbert Walker and May persevered in their determination, to apprehend me then, and try me as an example and a warnin.
This misfortune brought upon me an attack o' hypochondriacism; and Melancholy, wi' a' her attendant hags, hounded me, as they say, frae house to hame. Wearied o' concealin myself within doors, I sought the by-ways, the loans, and the unfrequented paths—still, however, doin my duties, and facin the public whar I couldna weel sneak out o' the way. Ae day, I was sittin on a fence, no far frae my ain door, musin on the curious turn my love affair had taen, and generally on the "vanity of human wishes." I thought o' the poem o' that name by the only poet whose works I could ever thole to read, and cured, in some degree, my despondency, by repeatin to mysel the lines—
"I hae dune baith," said a saft voice in my ear; "but the guid I hae prayed for is lang o' comin."
"It has a lang road to come, my bonny lass," said I to a young woman with a child in her arms, wha stood before me. "I, mysel, ken what it is to suffer; for a pickled rod is at this very moment on my puir back—sending, as it cuts its way, the nippin brine into my very marrow. But I am exercisin patience. What may your compliant be?"
"My complaint," said she, wipin a clear, shinin tear frae her bonny blue ee, "lies owre near my puir broken heart to be tauld to a stranger; for wha but Him wha is 'the saul's portion,' should hear the secrets, or is able to cure the waes o' a deserted wife? Ken ye the session-clerk o' this parish?"
"Owre weel," said I, "guid woman; for, personally, I am noo sufferin for that officer. I, mysel, hold that honoured office, wi' its twa appurtenances."
"You are, then, the very man I wanted to see," said she; "but I maun speak privately to ye. I hae come far to see ye, and heavy are the burdens I hae carried, baith at this bosom (lookin at her child) and in it; an' maybe ye may be the means o' relievin me o' ane o' them."
"Which o' them mean ye, woman?" said I, no a'thegither at ease. "I hope ye dinna mean the bairn. Ae misfortune's enough at a time."
"Na, na," replied she; "I dinna mean that you should be the faither o' the child; but ye may be the means, in higher hands, o' gettin back its faither, and thereby relievin me o' a' my burdens and a' my sorrows thegither."
"Nae man likes to do guid better than I do," replied I, wi' a decent complacency, "though I hae been sair defamed. Come awa wi' me, an' tell me your story."
I took the puir woman hame, and, seein she was filled wi' naething but sorrow, ane o' the maist inflatin o' a' the non-naturals (for Hippocrates himsel couldna doubt that it's ane o' them,) I supplied her wi' as muckle victuals o' ae kind or anither—no bein very particular about the agreement or concurrence o' the elemental parts o' the polymixia or combination—as I thought would hae the double effeck o' gettin quit o' her hunger and her sorrow thegither. The puir creature ate like a rhinoceros. I doubt if she had had any meat for a week. Cakes, milk, cheese, herrings, tea, and honey, a' disappeared; and naething remained but a blush o' shame on her bonny cheek, to tell how muckle abashed she was at her good appetite. Some ungracefu minded folks wad ha ta'en the sweet suffusion that covered her face, for the mere effect o' the fecht or warstle o' devouring sae muckle meat; but my delicacy suggested a truer, a mair feminine, and a mair gallant conclusion. I was sae muckle pleased with the refinement o' mind that led to this discovery, that I couldna help bringing't oot—for nae man should hide his candle under a bushel—
"Ye needna be ashamed, my bonny woman," said I, "at eating sae muckle; for, though it's no paid for, ye're perfectly welcome to it, ample and multitudinous as it is."
This had the desired effect; for the blush was instantly succeeded by a deadly paleness. I then asked her what was her particular object, in wishin to see and speak to me privately. It was some time afore she could answer—overcome, I fancy, by her admiration o' my delicacy o' sentiment; but at last, takin out a ragged handkerchief, as a kind o' preparation for a scene, a thing I like abune a' things—exceptin, maybe, that in the Warlocks' Glen—she began—
"I am the dochter o' an honest farmer, that lives down near the Tweed. His name is Arthur Græme; and my name—that is my maiden name—is Lucy Græme. He was ance accounted rich, and I was—no lang syne yet—considered to hae some claims to beauty—twa things that hae produced a' my wae. I was courted by the neighbourin farmers, wha vied wi' ane anither for my hand and my affections; but, as a prophet has nae credit in his ain country, sae neeborin lovers were little respeckit. The gree was born awa frae them by a perfect stranger, kenned neither to them nor to me. A young man, ca'ed, at that time at least, Hugh Kennedy, whase looks were, alas! his best recommendation, if I shouldna speak of a soft honeyed tongue, whase sounds were music to my ear, recommended himsel to me at a neighbouring fair, and took frae me, whether I wad or no, my silly affections. He had heard o' my father's siller, and he saw my blooming face; but he never had the courage to come to our house and court me honourably, as my other wooers were glad and proud to do. Yet—strange backslidin o' the human heart!—I wadna hae gien a stowen kiss o' Hugh Kennedy, among the beech groves o' Sunnybrae, for a' the flatterin, wooin, and braw presents o' the rest o' my lovers thegither. The mere circumstance o' the puir youth being banned, as he was (for his secret courtship was sune kenned), frae the very neeborin woods, bound him to my heart the closer and the firmer. Though twenty een were upon me as gleg as hawks, and I was watched like a convicted thief, I saw him, spoke to him, wept wi' him, lay in his dear arms, and got my tears kissed awa wi' his burning lips."
Her throat got thick, and she paused. After some sobbing, she continued—
"Oh, forgie me, sir! To ye alane, wha hae my fortune in yer hands, wad I speak in this wild strain, for my heart is fu' o' love, grief, and a still revivin hope that winna dee. I never asked him a question, sae worthless and silly in the thoughts o' a lover, whar he wad tak me, and what he wad do wi' me, if I ran frae my faither's house, and married him. What cared I for things that were to come, when a' my joys were centred in the single moment when I was in his arms? Na, I never asked him whar was to be our bed—whar we were to get our dinner. Love had made me as light, as gay, as free, as thoughtless, as the birds o' the grove, whose food and raiment, hoose an' ha', are provided by nature, wha is kinder to them than to us proud human creatures. I need say nae mair. I flew frae my faither's hoose, was married and ruined. My husband had nae trade by the hand, nae friends, nae hame. He trusted to my faither's wealth; but that took wings and flew away as fast as his dochter. We lived thegither, Gude kens hoo, for twa years, when, ae mornin aboot six months syne, he rose frae my side an' left me, an' I hae never seen him since. A month after, I bore this babe, wha hasna yet seen its faither. I inquired for him in every direction, an' at last I heard that he was livin in this parish, an' was on the eve o' bein married to a braw lass, wi' a better tocher than I could bring to him."
"This is a sad story, Lucy—Mrs Kennedy, I mean"—said I. "Your treacherous husband, and his unconscious victim, this second wife, whoever she may be, haena gien in their names to me yet, as clerk o' this parish; and Mr Meiklejohn is owre correct a man to marry them against the rules."
"Heaven be praised!" cried the poor woman. "I was afraid I might be owre late."
"Yer in braw time," said I; "but, if Mr Kennedy taks anither name, how will I ken him?—for he may forge certificates o' residence, or bribe some residenters to certify him—tricks no uncommon in the traffic o' matrimony."
"But maybe ye may ken his sweetheart," said she, wi a big heart, as she wrung the bitter name out o' her dry throat.
"It's no unlikely," said I; "I ken the maist o' the leevin folks o' the parish, and my faither kens a' the dead anes."
"Did you ever hear o' a young woman bearing the name o' May Walker?" said she.
"I think I hae," said I, hesitatingly, as if trying to recollect mysel; and, lookin suspiciously at her, for I thocht she had heard o' my misfortune, and was suspicious o' every individual that mentioned that charmed, dear, yet terrible name.
"I think I hae," repeated I, drawing my hand owre my weel-shaved chin, as if to try my beard; and, satisfied o' the ignorance and innocence o' the creature, wishin to keep my secret.
"Did ye ever see her, or speak to her?" continued Mrs Kennedy. "Is she bonny?—has she a sweet voice?—is she like—like me?" And she burst into tears.
"I hae seen her," replied I, tryin to keep mysel frae greetin too; but a loud blubber burst frae me, in spite o' a' my efforts to keep it amang the lower pairt o' my lungs. "I hae seen her—I hae kissed—hum—I mean I hae spoken to her. She is bonny—O ay!" (with an increased blubber); "she is indeed bonny."
My answer increased the weepin o' the jealous wife, and we baith grat thegither.
"Has she muckle siller?" said she, calming a little.
"She will hae," replied I; "she maun hae, for her faither is in very bad health."
This new cause o' sorrow increased my paroxysm to a perfect buller.
"Ye are a maist sympathetic creature," said Mrs Kennedy, "to greet that way for anither's misfortunes."
"It's just my way," said I; "we canna restrain our heart or our stamach."
The mention o' the last word made the puir creature blush. It even stopped her tears. On hoo little springs do our passions depend!
This scene bein acted in the way I hae thus (I hope pretty graphically) described, I began to tak a mair philosophical view o' this important business. With an acuteness as natural to me as to a snip's tool, I penetrated the prudential course o' my operations in an instant o' inspired intuition. I fancy it wad smack considerably o' the inane gotium o' supererogation, besides being exposed to the charge o' anticipation, to lay my plan before my readers in the clumsy way o' a chart, where there's sae guid a pilot. I like to seize a subject as my father did my mother when he courted and won her; or as I did May Walker, when I courted and lost her. To the heart at ance! I premised my operations, by askin Mrs Kennedy, in spite o' the gladiator-like way she had o' handlin her knife and fork, to remain in my house for a day or twa, till we saw whether her husband would ca' upon me, to gie in the names o' him and his—alas! what a change!—his dulcinea! In the meantime, Beagle's precognition was still proceedin; and Gilbert Walker and his dochter wouldna, it was said, relent. For about eight days, Mrs Kennedy sat and watched at the window, to see if she could espy her faithless husband; while I sneaked about, to try if I could ascertain the absolute truth of her story, and the real facks o' my ain deplorable case. My inquiries, conducted under the disadvantage o' being obliged to skulk, and beg, as it were, an answer to my questions, were not very successful. I, however, discovered that a young man, wi' black routhy whiskers, and a long romantic nose juttin out frae amang them, like a promontory frae the side o' a thick wud, was busy courtin May Walker, whase heart had got entangled in the forest o' his face, and couldna be liberated by a' the ruggin o' her father and her friends. This description o' him agreed wi' that I got frae Mrs Kennedy, wha couldna describe the coverin o' his face without tears. I was satisfied it was the man; and my satisfaction was confirmed by a kind o' recollection—strugglin through the inspissated gloom o' the oblivion I experienced after being knocked doon in the Warlocks' Glen—o' the figure o' an Orson-like individual, wi' a great rung in his hand, mixed with the evanescent sounds o' "My love!—my love!—knock doun the spoiler!" which produced, thegither, the conviction that Mr Hugh Kennedy was the very man on whom May Walker was waitin on that eventfu Sabbath, and who felled me sae unmercifully to the earth.
Mrs Kennedy and I persevered, with the asperity o' hedgehogs, echini asperitate, (Pliny,) in our watch. Ae day, as I was sitting ben the house, where the parish register lies, the puir woman cam rinnin into the room, in a state of dreadful agitation, crying—
"There he's—there he's passing the very window—comin in, nae doubt, to gie in the names. Ah, traitor!"
"Be quiet, foolish woman," said I. "Awa again to the kitchen. There he is!" (there was now a loud knocking at the door;) "awa wi' ye to the kitchen!"
And I hurried her, obtorto collo, by the neck and shoulders, (for the exigency of the case obliterated every trace of my usual gallantry,) to the kitchen, whereinto I locked her, as firmly as guid smith's wark would permit. The prudence o' this preliminary step needs nae elucidation to them wha ken the nature o' a deserted wife. I then walked calmly to the door, which I opened slowly and decently, as became a session clerk.
"How do you do, Mr Willison?" said a man, with large, black, routhy whiskers, and a prominent nose, o' the aquiline, or romantic cut.
It was the very apparition o' the fever I caught in the Warlocks' Glen. He pretended never to have seen me before; but a blue mark on my forehead tingled the moment it caught his eye; and, as I unconsciously raised my hand to gie it the relief it asked, he smiled—a fair detection; but I said naething to shew that I recognised him.
"As weel as can be expected," answered I, without mair significancy or intelligence than a babe or suckling would have exhibited.
"That is the answer of a lying-in wife in Scotland," said he, still smiling.
"Unfortunately, nane o' us hae ony experience o' that yet," said I, "if I can guess your errand to a parish clerk."
"You do guess rightly," said he. "I came here to request you, sir, to publish these banns, on the next three successive Sabbaths."
I received the paper he held out. It contained the names and designation o' the twa parties—George Webster, residing at Burnfoot; and May Walker, dochter o' Gilbert Walker, residing at Langacres.
"Where are your certificates o' residence?" said I.
He handed me a certificate, signed and attested wi' apparent regularity, but which I was predetermined to doubt, wi' a' the obstinacy o' a guid dogmatic sceptic.
"I fancy you'll be the George Webster mentioned here yersel, Mr Hugh Kennedy," said I.
He started, at the very least, three guid thumb-measured inches, frae my floor. The stroke was nearly as pithy as that he applied to me in the Warlocks' Glen.
"That is my name in the certificate, there," said he, recovering.
"I ken that brawly, Mr Kennedy," said I. "George Webster's your present name; but I forget neither auld names nor auld friends. Some folk, wi' new-fangled notions, hae, now-a-days, three names. Even Mr Meiklejohn, guid man, baptized his son Finlay Johnstone Meiklejohn, to the admiration o' the twa-named congregation o' St Fillan's; but it canna be expected that, when the laddie comes up, we are aye to address him by his three names. It would be owre great an expense o' wind and time."
"I have neither wind nor time to spend in this foolery," said he. "That is my name in the paper, and there are your fees."
"I dinna want to quarrel wi' you, Mr Kennedy," said I, "because I hae owre muckle respect for Mrs Kennedy—Lucy Græme, the dochter o' Arthur Græme o' Sunnybrae, on Tweedside—and her bonny bairn, to get into a dispute wi' the husband o' the ane and the father o' the other. But I can keep a secret, man. What are ye alarmed about? Though ye knocked me doun in the Warlocks' Glen, I hae nae ill-will to ye. I dinna object to cry ye next Sabbath, wi' May Walker; but ae gude turn deserves anither—ye can do me a service."
This statement utterly confounded Mr Kennedy. He tried first to bluster and swear, denied the truth of my assertion, calmed, blustered again; in short, gaed through a' thae useless and affected turns and movements that a hooked salmon taks the unnecessary trouble to do before it turns up the white o' its wame.
"Calm yoursel, my dear sir," said I. "Mrs Lucy Kennedy is in my power, under my key. She daurna stir. Ye may be married and awa lang afore she kens onything about it, puir thing. We can settle a bit o' ordinar business without the interference o' a woman. I pledge ye ye'll neither hear nor see her, if ye'll promise to do me the favour I want aff ye."
He fell back again into a rantin fit—swore he didna understand me—threatened to lick me—seized me by the cravat—took awa his hand again—gaed to the door—returned—calmed—rose, and calmed again.
"What a trouble ye put yersel to, Mr Kennedy!" said I, calmly. "I want naething frae ye o' ony consequence. Ye're quite welcome to May Walker." (A sentimental whine here treacherously insinuated itself into my speech.) "She's a braw lass, and will be a rich lass. Her faither's ga' blether's fu' o' ga' stanes, or as my faither ca'es them, ga' nuts—a decided icterus or jaundice. My parent (ye ken he's sexton) says he's sure o' him in sax weeks, and, consequently, ye're sure o' yer tocher in that sma' period o' time. I dinna want to deprive ye o' a' thae blessings, though it's in my power, and I might be urged to't by baith love and revenge."
"What is't ye want, then?" roared he, at last, in a voice higher than Stentor's, while the fire flashed frae his ee in almost palpable scintillations o' fury.
"Just get yer sweetheart, May Walker," said I, softly, "to write twa lines to Simon Begley, or Beagle, as they ca' him, the fiscal o' the shire, passin frae her charge against me; and ye'll be cried on Sabbath, afore the congregation meets, and Mrs Kennedy will never hear o't."
"I'll admit naething aboot Mrs Kennedy," said he, as doggedly as a mule—"it's all an invention of the brain of a subtle dominie; but I'll get ye the line ye want, on condition that these idle fancies are lodged again safely in the addle-noddle where subtlety or folly engendered them, and when self-interest brought them to aid ye in a bad cause."
"It's dune," said I; "but mark ye, nae cryin till I get the discharge; at least, if I'm forced, as I may be, to do my duty, and ca' the names, there'll be somebody in the front seat o' the gallery to answer me. Ye understand, Mr Kennedy?"
Dartin a furious look at me, no unlike what a person might fancy o' the minotaur, he flew oot o' the hoose. As he passed the window, the yells o' Mrs Kennedy resounded through the house, and even, I believe, followed hard on the heels o' her husband, if they didna owretak him a'thegither, as he birred through the neeborin plantin like an incorporated personification o' fear. The moment he was oot o' sight, I liberated the puir, unfortunate woman frae her place o' confinement.
"Whar is my husband?" she cried—"whar is that dear man, wha, in spite o' a' his guile and treachery, I maun see ance mair, though it were only to hauld up in his face this bairn, and then drap doun at his feet, and dee?"
"Calm yersel, my bonny woman," said I, dautin her on the back like a bairn. "It's time enough to talk o' deein—a subject my faither likes better than I do—when I hae renounced my endeavours to get ye back yer husband. It's a' in a fair way. He's got the shot. Ye may see by the way he ran, he's got something better than sparrow hail. Be assured he'll come doun. A deevil couldna flee wi' the weight o' cauld lead he carries under his wing."
"God bless ye!" said she, "and prosper yer efforts! I'll wait yer time."
In twa hours after this, a man on horseback, bespattered wi' the red loam o' the Warlocks' Glen up to the chin, arrived at my door. He cam frae Langacres, and carried a letter, he said, for the session-clerk o' St Fillan's. I snatched the letter frae his hands in an instant; tearin it open wi' a' the anxiety o' a creature strugglin for his precious reputation. It was just what I wanted. I asked the man to come in and get some refreshment; and the very instant I had him fairly within the house, I shut the door on him, and, mountin his swift, roan-coloured mare, flew like lightnin to Simon Begley's. He was at hame. I handed him the letter. He said it was just the very thing he wanted, for he acknowledged that the public authorities had no wish to prosecute a case involvin the ruin o' a puir man; but, until they got out the discharge o' the private prosecutor, they had nae power to relinquish their proceedins. He assured me that everything was now at an end, and the sough o' the country would dree the fate o' a seven days' wonder.
Next day, I tauld Mrs Kennedy to dress hersel, and be ready, wi' her bairn and her marriage-lines, to accompany me to a neighbour's house. We departed thegither. We took the road to Langacres. I felt the necessity here o' the maist inordinate caution—for I never could have been answerable for the effects o' my bein seen at a distance, walkin in my ordinary, erect, bauld, and somewhat martial manner, upon the house o' a jaundiced invalid, wha possessed the idea that I had already assaulted, and endeavoured to abduct his dochter. He might, in the first place, either be placed in a situation o' intense fear and alarm—prejudicial, if not fatal, to an invalid—or he might fire upon me from the windows, wi' ane o' his auld sportin guns, for he was ance a great sportsman. At same time it was necessary to conceal Mrs Kennedy, in case she might hae been recognised by her faithless spouse. We took, therefore, a circuitous route, under the cover o' a wood, that led up to the kitchen door. The moment I entered, the women in the kitchen began to scream and flee awa; but I soon shewed them I was perfectly canny, and even got the length o' bein allowed to daut ane o' them (but she was a little advanced in life) on the back. I was nae langer impeded in my endeavour to see Mr Gilbert Walker, whom I discovered in an arm-chair, as yellow as saffron, and as cankered as a nettle. He tried to start up when I entered; but, heaven be praised! his jaundice sune brought him to his seat again.
"I am come, sir," said I, "in a matter o' the maist interest in nature to you and your dochter May."
"How, sir," screamed he, "can ye dare to sully the name o' that innocent creature, by makin't run the gauntlet o' thae treacherous lips! Awa wi' ye, ye vile Nicanor! ye wolf that carries woo on your back in place o' hair! Alas! what a warld is this! 'Baith prophet and priest are profane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness.'"
"Gilbert Walker," said I, calmly, "my intentions towards your dochter were honourable, and I am come here this day—little thanks to me!—to put you on your guard against one whose intentions are false, treacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a married man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for merely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband o' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned though honourable Cœlebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me, her faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act, convict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side wi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could justify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man? There's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan, frae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that taste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland."
"What is this?" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in the arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. "What do I hear? Who says that George Webster is a married man?"
"Your greatest enemy!" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with his outstretched hand. "Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected, dejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared to spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is gratitude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just vengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that awarded him his safety."
"I see, I see it a'," cried May. "I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the auld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom bushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the yellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry their poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's ha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in the green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie him nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the Warlocks' Glen."
I sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard spinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance—
"Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!—it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never shew your face in this house again."
In three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness and calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of native etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet, Mrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in her pouch.
"I beg leave to introduce to you," said I, "Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu wedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George Webster, which is a mere cover—a vile deceit, and an imposition."
I hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her bairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a love that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi' her longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious mastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he can. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake the king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore, kicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck like a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht hae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid. But the foolish man struggled—vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane effort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew, and puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle was for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for life. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe, impeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out, as if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned up, to show their whites. A hollow raucitus, or rattle, began in his throat.
"Save the man frae strangulation," cried Gilbert Walker.
"Haud the young Kennedy, May," said I, throwin the bairn into her arms, squallin wi' a great noise.
I flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's hands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was deprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy, staggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a short time, the puir woman cam to hersel.
"Hugh, dearest Hugh," she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, "can it be possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither—me, wha left, for yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the bonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene o' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves—for ay and for ever?"
"I know you not, woman," said he, doggedly.
"Dinna ken yer wedded wife!" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her marriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. "Dinna ken Lucy Græme, dochter o' Arthur Græme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by marryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to cherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This is the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae brought on my puir head. That bairn," (risin an' seizin the child,) "that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted its houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your cauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge—got, dootless, frae heaven—o' its natural protector. O maiden, maiden," (lookin to May Walker,) "tak example by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it, dinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree, and means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has taen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace—he wad hae taen frae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour."
Kennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his wife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I watched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled me to a side—I stumbled and fell—the women screamed—and, before I got up, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn still in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae power wad restrain her—she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs, after her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair.
Gratitude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time completely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin. We were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that famous wark, "The Border Tales."